


Honor Among Thieves

by aimai



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Illegal Activities, Kelptomania, Minor Spoilers, Oh yeah there is some amount of, Slight spoilers, Smoking, Smooching, Teenage Stupidity, also the true surnames of sam and nate, by spoilers i mean vague shit, oh there's also, some amount of angst bc we all know what this ultimately leads to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7281961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimai/pseuds/aimai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the joke goes, a teenager sneaks out of their parents' house to go to a party. Why? No one knows the specifics, not even the teenager. But this teen is trying to give life - a fun life - a shot.</p><p>The punchline is, that someone else is helping call the shots.</p><p>Young!Sam Drake/Reader (unspecified gender)</p><p>a self-indulgent fic because idk why not</p><p>wattpad:http://my.w.tt/UiNb/QldXfmOgru</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Teenager Walks Into A Party...

**Author's Note:**

> idk why im writing this bc im actually rafe trash

 

"So a pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel sticking out of his crotch, and the bartender says, 'What's with the wheel?' and the pirate says, 'Aargh, it's driving me nuts!'"

You admit that you have absolutely no fucking clue why this boy came up to you out of nowhere. Maybe it's a sign that you shouldn't have snuck out of your house to attend this party. He's fairly attractive, sure, but you'll be damned if you let this history-lecturing kid follow you all night like a lost puppy.

"Um," you begin, "I didn't catch your name."

"Well, I didn't throw it."

Oh jeez. You've got no time for this nutjob. You're absolutely sure this boy is going to follow you all night, if not bother you with that mocking smirk of his.

"Okay, listen freckle-face," your finger jabs into his chest as his smile shows his amusement off even more, "I came here to have a good time. There's a bunch of other people in this place that you can bother, so go pick on someone that will volunteer to listen to your shitty pirate impersonations, okay?"

Now, you admit that that was a tad harsh, even if the smirk on his face was widening at your impatience. Perhaps he's drunk on corner store beer, or maybe he's taken a liking to you, but this no-name kid that you've never seen in school is getting on your last nerve. You came here to have fun for once, dammit, and you'll be damned if this boy ruins your party mood.

He keeps his smile on you for a few more seconds until he takes a few steps back and disappears behind the crowd of kids gathered around the living room.

You look at a digital clock that reads 12:45 am sitting on a nearby drawer. It takes you a moment to realize that you're at a house party, at midnight. A house party filled with teenagers and bumping music that threatens to shake the house down.

And your parents have absolutely no clue.

Of course, that's what makes this fun, right? Kids doing things - doing people - they shouldn't be doing. Half of your classmates are in the kitchen popping bottles of cheap beer while the other half is dancing close to the living room speakers. So many kids, you think, that if they all jumped at once, a sinkhole would appear in the ground.

You look back at the clock some moments later and you realize probably an hour has passed since you've walked through the front door with no intention of displaying the wallflower persona tonight.

However, here you are, with the most social contact being a boy telling pirate jokes.

Now, you haven't completely planned out your next move for the night. Yes, going back home is somewhat of an option, but the night is young and the fridge is packed and full of free food so you'll be damned if you walk home tonight with nothing in your pockets.

And it starts with a couple of Ritz crackers being stuffed into your pockets. A couple, which then turns into several, which then turns into a dozen. No one is questioning you right now. Food is a free-for-all in this house, apparently, and it is demonstrated by half-eaten sandwiches and pizza slices scattered all over the kitchen counter.

So you decide to take a soda. A couple sodas. You down them quickly before shivering at the bubbles popping in your throat and stomach.

That's enough, you convince yourself to put the sticky fingers away, but you find yourself on the second floor staring at a shiny silver ring laying on a drawer.

Don't do it.

But alas, the sticky fingers have spoken and they are telling you that this is definitely what you left your house for.

Do it.

You decide to pocket the silver ring, admiring it for a split second before putting it on your finger (which is, amazingly, the perfect size) and taking a deep breath.

"Slick moves."

Your eyes widen. Was that directed to you? No, no it wasn't.

"Hey, I'm talking to you."

Okay, maybe it was.

You turn your head to see a familiar face - the pirate-joking boy - staring at you from down the hall. At first, he pouts in disapproval, but then grins when his eyes point towards the silver ring on your finger.

Naturally, the first instinct here is to apologize, to own up to one's mistakes and profusely ask for forgiveness as if you were in a Catholic confessional. This is the sane thing to do. If one recognizes their fault, then they shall be forgiven.

But, being a panicked dumbass, you ran to the other side of the hall, down the stairs, to the backyard, and into the bushes to hide yourself from the boy. And also the shame.

You crouch as you feel the loud music from inside the house shake the shrubbery around you. It's rustling now, and you look at your hands and see the silver ring reflect the porch lights.

It's probably still midnight, and there is absolutely no sign of the sun peeking over the horizon, so at this moment in time you are planning your escape route out of the house and back home to safety. Jump out of the bushes when the coast is clear, then waltz through the front door and down the street back home. The boy doesn't know where you are, because if he did he would have at least pulled you out of the bushes as of now.

So you peek your head out, slowly, and you see said boy - who might as well be the goddamned devil - sitting on the grass, looking straight in your direction.

"Come on out, I ain't gonna bite."

You furrow your brows and think for a moment. What if that's his ring, or what if it's actually his house and you've been rummaging through his shit the entire time, or worse, what if he starts telling you more shitty jokes?

At this point you realize you're avoiding the inevitable: a crushing and embarrassing defeat. If only your sticky fingers were more smooth.

You stand up from your spot behind the bushes, shaking the soil off of you and picking at twigs and leaves that had stuck to your skin.

Oddly, there is no weird feeling when you walk towards the boy and sit in front of him on the yard, criss-crossed with hands starting to pick and pull at the grass.

"I saw your work," he begins, "Pretty smooth stuff. But still a bit messy. You've got crumbs spilling outta your pockets, there." He points to the crumbled Ritz crackers stuck to your clothes.

It's not humiliating to know that someone has observed your handiwork. It's more humiliating to know that they're mocking you for it.

"Anyways, you asked for my name earlier, so I'm handing it to you. My name is Sam, and I am very interested in what you're even doing here at this party."

You wince at his - Sam's - words, not because they hurt, but because you have no idea how to answer him. You are at this party because... You can be? Or rather, you're not supposed to be. You're not supposed to even be awake at this hour, much less be out and about.

"I... Er..." The words cannot seems to form because there are, in fact, no words to describe your mindset, "I am here. For some fucking reason that I don't know."

"You don't know why you're partying?"

"I wanted to do something new besides stay at home like a good kid."

"So you're here to be a delinquent?"

"Not at all."

"Well, I just witnessed you steal from this house."

"Er..."

"Do your parents even know you're here?"

Sam has you pegged. You have no idea why you're here, but you're here probably because on the inside, some weird teenage angst is screaming to be let out, to show itself to the world.

"So you're a klepto that disobeys their parents," Sam is smiling again, eyes filled with amusement, "And you are here at a teenage party in which teenagers do very, very bad things."

"I suppose so," The million dollar question is floating in your mind until you gather enough strength to blurt it out, "Are you gonna tattle on me?"

"Tattle? What am I, five?" Sam shakes his head as his smile grows wider, "No, no. You see, I am also a very bad teenager. And I would very much like it if you would join me in doing some more very bad things."

At this very moment, you gag out loud. You literally gag. There are some weird thoughts racing through your head in which can only be described as very bad things, and it takes Sam a godforsaken epiphany to realize the context of his words.

"Oh Jesus," he shakes his head and hands, "No no no, not that, woah. I meant if you wanted to go joyriding or something, goddamn."

Your awkwardness fades as a feeling of relief washes over you. It's an odd emotion, but the need to regurgitate from absolute shame and embarrassment finds itself dissipating into thin air.

You shake your head a few times, in whatever direction, you're not sure, but he takes the confused nods and shakes as a positive answer and hops on his feet.

Sam holds his hand out to you as you look up to him.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand."


	2. cigarettes before sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: smoking, slight drinking, spoilers for those who havent finished uncharted 4

2:34 am. They say that time flies when you're having fun, yet daylight hasn't shown up. Your parents are probably still asleep, unaware that you left the house and ran off with some odd boy you've never met.

Sam. His name is Samuel Morgan and you're hugging his waist, hitching a ride with him on his motorbike to God knows where. You lean in closer, cheek pressing against his backpack, feeling the wind brush against your face and the streetlights pass over your head.

In all honesty, both of you have nowhere special to go to right now. It's a night filled with the unknown and if some opportunity of adventure were to jump out at you as of now, you would follow it, no matter how stupid and reckless it might be. Because this is what kids your age do, right?

The city starts to blur off into a distance as he heads toward the harbor on the far side. It's dark there, with only a few lamp posts placed upon the boardwalks and warehouses. The smell of the sea salt breeze is foreign to you, but not unpleasant. It doesn't bother you, nor him as he pulls up to a warehouse, seemingly untouched and abandoned by the looks of it.

For a moment, you think you've just been kidnapped. Recklessness, you think, is the thing that your parents have warned you about. What if Sam is the type of person that they were warning you about since you were a child? That he's the type of guy that pulls you off the sidewalk when you're at your most vulnerable and places chloroform over your mouth?

"Are you waiting for an invitation?" Sam's voice snaps you out of your anxious thoughts.

He gets off the bike and stands right next to it, right in front of you.

Anxiety, fear, regret, terror, every goddamn worried feeling churning in your stomach telling you that this is a bad idea is there, the conscience in your mind telling you that your parents - no one - knows where you are and who you're with right now, and if you were to get kidnapped against your will, there would be almost no leads the cops can follow to save you.

"Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you."

You should be convinced by now that Sam is probably a mind-reader. Or maybe you're just easy to read. Either way, there's a look in his eyes that meets yours and reassures you that he isn't a shady black-market human trafficker. He pulls out a cigarette from his backpack and taps the filter on the metal of his motorbike. So he's a smoker, then. He twitches an eyebrow and make eye contact with you as he lights up and takes a puff, then pulls his lips from the cigarette and hands it to you.

He's looking for any sign that you're comfortable with smoking. Perhaps you are, perhaps you aren't, you don't know what you want anymore.

"It's been a long drive," He says, "Take a hit, that's if you wanna. No peer pressure."

He licks his lips before he inhales another puff from the cigarette, then holds it between his fingers yet again to pass it to you to see if you want it.

This time, you take it. Smoking is a terrible habit that you're not sure if you want to start, Hell, you're unsure if you're comfortable holding a lit cigarette in your hand, but he takes a step closer to you and walks you through it.

"Just take a puff, inhale into your lungs, then breathe out. Easy."

You at first inhale too quickly and feel burning at the top of your throat, wincing at the uncomfortable feeling and dropping the cigarette onto the pavement. Sam pulls out a water bottle for you to drink and clear your throat, then picks the cigarette back up and takes a puff. He understands the feeling of the first burn, especially on a shitty inhale, so he keeps the cigarette to himself for now and pulls out a bottle of beer from the party you both ditched.

* * *

 

Sitting on the warehouse rooftop sharing a beer and a pack of cigarettes with Sam is the most angsty thing you have done in your entire adolescence. You can see the minuscule blinking of distant stars in the city sky. There aren't enough lights in the sky compared to the city on the horizon, but it's enough because Sam is pointing out what little bits of constellations he can identify to you and telling you the old tales inspired by them. Then he goes into this long rant about Greek mythology, and then the history of the Roman Empire, and then he's suddenly talking about Mughals and Turks and everything you had never paid attention to in history class.

It's fun, you admit, that you're spending a good amount of time with this boy, alone, under the stars, with no loud music and obnoxious kids to give you a panic attack. He's comfortable with himself, and you admire this and many things more about this Sam Morgan.

He's been rambling on so much about history that you realize you know nothing about him. So you ask.

He tells you that he has no parents, to which he frowns at. That his only family is his little brother that's five years younger than him, which he smiles at. They were dropped off at a Catholic orphanage, where Sam got kicked out of due to his criminal behavior.

"What, did you put a whoopie cushion in the confessional?" You laugh, and he laughs too, eyes brightening.

He continues, telling you of his thievery and odd jobs, that he wasn't even invited to the party that you went to tonight and just decided to crash the place out of nowhere, uninvited, until he saw your antics, which you smile at.

He tells you that he's a two-bit thief. He tells you that he misses his mother. He tells you that he doesn't know why he's venting to a stranger right now, but it feels nice because he hasn't been able to see his little brother in months. He tells you that the world feels more lonely than it should. He tells you he misses his brother like crazy.

You pull out a cigarette from his pack and light it up and share it with him before falling asleep on his shoulder, and he wakes you up and gives you a ride home.

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon as you pull up to your house. You hug him for a moment, and he gives you the bottle cap from the beer he drank earlier. It still smells like alcohol.

"Keep it. Souvenir."

"Yeah, I'll hole-punch it and wear it around my neck."

He smiles at you, eyes tired from staying up all night and you realize you're probably as tired as he is. You hug him once more before going back inside the house, and he watches you as you close the door to make sure you're inside and safe.

As you walk upstairs and fall into bed, you hear your parents' bedroom door open, and the sound of Sam's motorbike revving away.


	3. Should've Known There'd Be An Alarm

You can't remember the last time you saw him. Probably a week ago, maybe a month. Time flies when you're missing someone to death. But as a matter of fact, you just haven't seen him in a couple of days.

Sam says he's been busy lately, that his job has been good and solid to him lately and that he's visit his brother in secret every so often. You notice the sparkle in his smile every time he talks about little Nathan. It's adorable.

These are the last few things you remember about Sam lately. Since the first night both of you spent together from whatever seemed like an eternity ago, you find yourself sneaking out of your house more often in order to explore the city at night with him. He teaches you how to run and jump over buildings, and how to pick a lock on a door and how to rope a hook onto a distant streetlight. All the while he lectures you about Catholicism and the history of it as he reminisces his time at the orphanage with Nathan.

Tonight is a schedule of half an hour of joyriding on the bike and then maybe a little bit of "window shopping," as Sam calls it. In this context, it means breaking and entering and stealing.

There an apartment complex a bit on the edge of the city, one that should be easy to get in and out of. He tells you that he specially picked the place out for the both of you to explore.

"I know you like to take shiny things, so I found a place where such shiny things exist." He says.

"Awh, you remembered."

Sam boosts you up the fire escape on the side of the apartment building and you unlatch the ladder, giving him access to the second floor. You look at the watch he had nabbed for you one night, a golden clock face watch with an easy-working clasp. Perfect fit. It's as if everything shiny both of you steal was made for you to grab and take home.

The time is 1:22 am.

You follow Sam further up the fire escape with light footsteps so as to not wake anyone. Sam stops at a window with the curtains pulled back and peeks through carefully, touching the pane lightly to see if the owner had recklessly kept the window unlocked. There's a bronzy pocket watch on the counter, gleaming in the moonlight. You can see it from your spot behind Sam, and you tell him that that is the first thing you are going to stuff in your pockets tonight.

"No lights, no one's home." He looks back at you and then crouches as he pulls out a cloth from his backpack.

He places it over the window, and you know what he's about to do.

Sam's about to punch his fist against the glass, but he stops and turns his head towards you and flashes a wry smile.

"Actually, would you like to do the honors?"

You take him up on this offer. He holds the cloth as you take your elbow and ram it through the window, shattering it as the cloth muffles the sound of the shards cracking. He unlocks the window, and you both climb in.

Now it's all fun and games. All until someone gets caught.

"Ah, fuck. Should have known there would be an alarm."

The look on your mother's face when she comes to pick you up from the police station makes her look like a complete zombie - her face is pale and her eyes are tired and she is definitely bloodthirsty because it is two in the morning and she is not happy at the fact that you were caught busting the window of an alarmed apartment.

And she is definitely angry that you are with, as she describes him, "an orphaned street urchin."

Sam's in the hallway sitting next to you with his wrist handcuffed to the chair, refusing to give a guilty look that would gain any sort of sympathy from the officers. Yet, when your mother steps up to you with her feet echoing across the tile floor, Sam begins to apologize to her profusely.

"It's my fault," He says, rattling the handcuff on his wrist, "I should have never brought them out and I take full responsibility. This is not their fault..."

And he goes on and on and on...

At this point, both your mother and you are look at Sam with this sort of amazement, that this guy is taking the fall for your actions. The landlord of the apartment you broke into isn't even pressing charges - despite the fact that you are both of legal age - and Sam is here, sweat appearing on his temples, eyes pleading to let you off the hook.

Your mother talks to the police officer and convinces him to let you go on account that you have a clean record. Sam, however... Sam is more than likely staying the night behind bars.

The sounds of feet stomping throughout the hall have disappeared; your mother is not as angry anymore. It's time to go, but Sam keeps you from leaving by asking you to wait.

"Make it quick," Your mother says with a growing impatience and tiredness, "I'll be waiting in the car."

You stand in front of Sam as he stays dormant and unmoving in the chair he is restrained to. His finger wiggles, telling you to come closer. Breath comes from between his lips as his voice whispers into your ear:

"Keep your window open for me, will ya?"

* * *

 

After a long ride home and an even longer lecture, your mother finally tires herself out. She promises not to tell your father because it's been a long enough night and she's rather not make the morning even longer.

It's 2:41 am and you can hear her close her bedroom door and slump into bed.

You wait five minutes before acknowledging Sam's instructions, and you open up the window to tour bedroom. He'll probably ask you to sneak out for a little longer, you think.

However, a surprise hits you in the face as ten minutes after, Sam is now hanging from your bedroom window after climbing the drainage pipe, telling you that the cops just want some sleep and therefore released him a little earlier than they should have.

"Wow, everyone seems pretty laid back today, huh?"

"Just another night of thieving, you know."

You smile as you help pull him up and over the window sill, into your room.

There's a tension in the air now. It comes quickly because it's past midnight and you've got a delinquent Romeo in your bedroom who had gotten you off the hook with your infuriated mother. Sam's got you in his arms and standing and holding you and you're just hugging before he asks if you if he can spend the night.

The first thought that comes to mind is cheesy teenage dramas on T.V., but then you look into his eyes and you realize that he's serious right now. He's got no proper home to settle under right now, and after some contemplation of the worst case scenario, you ultimately say yes.

There's a warmth to his body that you can't describe as he crawls into bed with you. It's perfectly intimate in an appropriate way, and you suddenly feel as if you've never felt more at ease in your own bed than you do with Sam as you doze off to the sound of his steady heartbeat.

In the morning, he's unsurprisingly left you alone in your room.

However, the fact that he left a lovely bronze pocket watch on your nightstand both shocks and amuses you.


	4. Shotgunning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shotgunning is a term relating to an action with beer cans, weed, cigs, or car seats. I suggest you know which one is mentioned

__Waking up in the morning nowadays has become a bit of a hassle. Or rather, your mother thinks waking you up in the mornings is a hassle, and not just because your sleeping schedule has been fucked since you met Sam. Ever since that awkward night of her picking you up at the station, she's been looking at you in a different light.

However, despite the tongue-lashing and distrust she has expressed towards you, she is surprisingly still letting you out of the house. You've noticed this because she likes to prioritize falling asleep in her comfortable king-sized bed with your father at 9 at night, unbeknownst to the fact that you keep your window open, waiting to hear the quiet rumble of Sam's motor.

She has not said a word about that ungrateful night since after Sam had slept in your room (without her or your father's knowledge or permission, of course), and you thank her for saving you the embarrassing conversation of having to explain your sudden kleptomaniac urges. Along with that, not a word of the incident had been uttered to your father, and you know this because he still roams the household with the same light footsteps, having the same amount of beers every night, showing no indication of anger or disbelief.

You're quite thankful for your mother's ability to be forgiving. Or rather, her passiveness.

And her slight ignorance.

Of course, just because you haven't been grounded for all eternity doesn't mean you don't receive punishment occasionally. Your mother will do her passive aggressive parenting, from telling you to wash the dishes every single time you leave your room to bursting through your door and telling you to tidy up your bed. It's exhausting, but you understand her actions are justified. You'll just let her get it out of her system.

While she does that, you meet up with Sam during the morning in the city café and make plans for tonight. Unsurprisingly, this is without your parents' knowledge.

"So, how'd she take it?" Sam asks.

"She'll survive."

Sam looks at the croissants he ordered for the two of you to share before picking one up and attempting to feed you like the (not) gentleman he is.

You smile at him, then throw a piece of bread at his face and he shows that award-winning smile that he has, making you smile back. You toss a pack of sugar at him and he catches it between his teeth, grinning as the small packet hangs from his smile. Sam's eyes gleam mischievously, and it screams, "Let's have a food fight."

But alas, adult are there to ruin the day. There's a waiter walking towards you both and you know exactly what he's going to spout out.

"Excuse me, but you both need to leave."

In all of your life, you have never heard of two teens getting kicked out of a public area for playing with sugar.

Sam stuffs a croissant into his mouth - and then shoves one into waiter's - before hopping on his bike. There, he waits for you to join him as you take a croissant in both hands before running off and laughing as you zoom through the streets on the back of the motorbike with the image of the waiter's appalled face burned into your memory.

☕️☕️☕️

The routine is the same. Sam throws a pebble at your window (if he doesn't hang from the windowsills in an attempt to scare the shit out of you), and you easy slip out unnoticed with a backpack of handy materials: rope, a bottle of water, a lighter, and a pack of cigarettes that Sam gifts to you every so often. It's always good to chill with him on the edge of a roof as you both have a cigarette or two.

This time, you brought a polaroid camera that your parents had bought on your birthday. You know that this odd teenage life will soon be behind you, and you tell Sam that you want to document it in hopes of looking back at these days and smiling.

Sam smiles at the thought of you remembering him long after the both of you grow up and fall apart. And then his smile disappears because it is more than likely that he will have to leave you behind... If you don't walk out on him first.

To think of depressing thoughts on such a clear night with you, Sam feels almost guilty. He refrains from speaking to much in order to swallow the lump in his throat that keeps him on the verge of panic. If his life didn't take him away from you, then perhaps you would be swept off your feet by something else in the world. Something more logical. Something safer, like college or internships or even marrying someone super duper rich and having them take care of you for the rest of your life. Sam knows that he would enjoy that life. Especially if it meant that Nathan would have the guarantee that he would grow up without having to look behind his back or fear looking to the future.

But then again - to be content with one's life - this is the luxury that teenagers cannot afford.

And yet, he finds contentment within you.

As your legs dangle off the edge of the warehouse rooftop, he can't help but smile to himself. It's been a while since the two of you had some downtime together, and you suggested a view from the harbor to look at the horizon line of the cityscape, to which Sam absolutely could not refuse.

He watches you as you take a long, exhausting drag from the cigarette between your lips.

"You know the rules, smokey," He mocks at you, pointing to the cigarette in your hand, "It's puff, puff, pass. Not burn the whole damn thing out, pass."

You look at the cigarette, then at Sam, who is readily waiting for you to pass it. You take another puff, holding it, then you flick the burning filter towards the water, all the while maintaining eye-contact with an amused Sam.

"Shotgun?" You say, still holding smoke within your lungs. Sam was already reaching into his backpack for his pack, ready to light up again, until you suggested shotgunning that last drag.

Sam would tell you that he was surprised that you could hold your breath for so long if he didn't shock himself back into reality as he feels your warmth when he leans to meet you halfway.

You exhale slowly as Sam inhales the smoke you breathe, smiling as you go along. He's looking at your lips, then into your eyes and you don't realize you're blushing until you see that he's is also red in the cheeks.

Maybe it's the beer. Maybe.

But Sam is here, inches from your face, and you're starting to have these odd thoughts going through your head.

_Sam looks quite nice in the city lights._

_Sam's got a charming smile._

_Sam's freckles are so cute._

_Sam is..._

"Oh fuck." You say aloud.

"Oh... Fuck?" Sam repeats.

"Oh, FUCK."

Oh fuck, indeed.

You think Samuel Morgan is attractive. You think he's boyfriend-material. Which, in fact, he might as well be your manic pixie dream-girl (or in this case, manic pixie dream-boy). The bike rides, the thieving, the smoking and drinking.

He's just a bad-to-the-bone boyfriend just waiting to happen.

At this point, all the thoughts going through your head have scrambled more than a morning omelet. You're standing now as Sam is watching you freak out as if you found the meaning of life and all of the universe. Sam's just as confused as you are, and he stands up to hug you in order to calm you down from your sudden epiphany.

He refuses to let go of your flustered self because he's convinced you're going to give yourself a heart attack, which is almost the case due to the fact that his hands are wrapped around your waist, which your blood pressure is very excited about.

It takes a while before you calm down. Your first instinct is to ask him for another cigarette, but you instead come to the conclusion that you need a good night's sleep for once.

"Can I, uh," You open your mouth as he still holds you, head resting upon one of your shoulders, "Can you take me home?"

Sam pulls away and looks at you in the eyes, questioning if you're alright or not. His concern makes you feel a bit better, if not a little more sunken into your sudden infatuation with him. Ultimately, after realizing he cannot hold you against your will, the two of you hop onto his motorbike.

The sounds and vibrations of a revving motorbike are almost enough to put you asleep on the way back home. Almost.

Sam is great when it comes to handling a bike, but that's not always the best thing. You see, the better someone is at something, the easier and safer they can piss someone off. And Sam, well, Sam likes to piss you off by making sharp turns, leaving you making and odd sound that is seemingly a mixture of screeching and crying noises.

You realize his joke-like behavior makes you like him even more.

Despite all these literal twists and turns, you manage to stumble off the bike after he parks in the street in front of your house. The window is open, just as you left it, and as you stagger a bit onto the sidewalk, Sam grabs your hand.

Your backpack falls to the ground as he pulls you to him quickly. _It's in slow motion,_ you think, _this is how those teenage romance movies go, FUCK._

You arms press up against his chest as your lips connect with his, your eyes staying open for a second before melting into his touch. His hand lets go of yours and cups your face, his thumb rubbing soft circles upon your cheek.

This feeling of intimacy with him is on another level, another goddamned plane of existence. You've smoked with Sam, you've drank with Sam, you've stolen with Sam and you've been caught by the police with Sam. And even, Hell, you've spooned with Sam in your own bedroom. But the touch of his lips against yours - moving against yours - it has your knees weak. Or perhaps that's just because you're tired from another long night.

For a while, you stay there with him, kissing him as if it's the most natural thing to do. But Sam pulls away, and you're a bit thankful because you hadn't realized you were running out of breath

You're speechless for a while, looking into his eyes and holding him closer than you ever had before. And yet, despite the tender moment, he gently pries himself from your hug and reaches towards his bike.

"Wait, wait," You shake your head as Sam gets back onto his bike and kicks the stand back, "Wait, what the fuck was that, Sam?"

He says nothing for a moment, but spouts a word at you before speeding off.

"Shotgun."


	5. If

You hadn't expected Sam to kiss you. Hell, you didn't think that he even would be remotely interested with being romantically involved. Even though his advances foreshadowed what could possibly become a blooming relationship with Samuel Morgan, you didn't anticipate him staying the night another time.

You thought it was a one-time thing, that he crashed at your house simply because he was exhausted. No, it turns out that he actually wanted to be with you and stay for a while.

Or rather, a long while.

Cuddling with Sam in your bedroom has become a second instinct to you. His head resting upon your pillow is a sight to behold, and you find yourself hypnotized in the dark of the night as his fingers tangle with yours.

It's 2:52 in the morning, and although you're starting to doze off, you notice that Sam seems somewhat restless as he is constantly shaking you awake with his tossing and turning.

"Need a smoke?" You ask him. He seems preoccupied with something in his mind. He's pondering, and you know this because his thoughts are louder when he's laying right next to you.

"Is that okay? Won't the smell get you in trouble?"

"Sammy, there's a lot we can do in my bedroom that could get us in trouble."

He can't help but laugh at that, because it is very true. Sam could literally rip your clothes off and fuck your brains out while you're parents are sleeping in the bedroom down the hall. He could hotbox your sheets and get you high as a kite. Hell, he could even murder you and leave your body for your parents to find in the morning.

However, Sam is a gentleman and he would not do such things. Without your consent and a little bit of panic, of course.

You hop out of bed for a quick second before grabbing your backpack and throwing it onto the mattress. Sam sits up straight, covers falling off of him, as he digs through your bag for a pack and your flip-top lighter. You open the window to aerate the room a bit before Sam speaks up.

"Do you... ever wonder what life would be like if you never met me," You turn to him as the words slip from his mouth. It's a terrifying sentence strung together with anxiety, and although Sam wished it hadn't fallen from his lips, he still needed some sort of reassurance. "Like, if we never started this whole thing?"

He's smoking now, taking a seat on the windowsill in front of you and flicking the ashes over the edge whilst you play with your hands, not looking at him.

"I try not to," you smile at him, "Why, do you?"

"I do," he says, "I think about the loneliness and being homeless. I think about you, going on with your normal life, probably not going out and stealing things with me. And you're not puffing half a pack of cigs by my side, of course. That's a plus."

"Do you think our lives would be better if we hadn't met?"

"Now, I didn't say that. I mean, it probably would be, but what I mean is," he takes a drag from the cigarette and tosses the rest out of the window before holding your hands in his, "I do think about not ever meeting you. But I don't want to think about that. I don't want to live a life where you're not there."

What a cheesy line.

Thinking back to the first night you met Sam, you remember your initial thoughts about him were of annoyance. He was telling you lame jokes and weird history lectures and you had absolutely no interest in him whatsoever. Even when he caught you with that silver ring on your finger (which you still wear looped through a lanyard on your neck), you thought he was just another passerby in your life, another face to forget.

And Sam, when he first met you, he was just joshing around like he always does. Crystal had cut him loose again from their relationship and he couldn't visit the orphanage without being shunned by the nuns, so he was expecting a simple night out to crash a party and getting a load off his mind. But then he met you, some sort of odd, shy kleptomaniac who doesn't know what they want.

For the longest time, Nathan was the only one in his life that ever loved him.

It's like something odd clicked. Like a spark ignited some sort of flame that kept you two fueled throughout the cold city nights. Hopping from door to door, trespassing, thieving - Sam couldn't have said it any better; he couldn't ask for more.

You really couldn't think of a life without Sam.

You didn't know what to say to his words. A chuckle and a chaste kiss seemed to do the trick, and he seemed calmer, with a solemn smile forming upon his face.

The polaroid camera your parents had bought you was sitting on your bed, falling out of your backpack. You grabbed it and walked up to Sam as you checked for film and a working flash.

He amusingly scoffs as you walk up to him, camera in hand, facing the two of you.

You kiss him, taking a picture and listening to the shutter of the camera flicker as he smiles against your lips. The polaroid comes out, and you shake it a few times and watch as it develops in your hand.

It's a lovely picture of you and Sam next to your window, kissing, smiling. It's as if everything was alright in the world in that single shot. As if there were no worries outside of your room in that moment.

"Ah, wait, that one's composition is off." He says, taking the polaroid from you and stuffing it into his pocket.

"Fine, fine, we'll take another one."

You take another picture as he kisses you. You realize you'll probably never get used to the softness of lips and the vibrations that press against you when he chuckles.

"Oh wait, my eyes were closed." He jests.

"Shut up, you're wasting my film!"

You kiss him again for the umpteenth time that night, taking pictures.

With each picture, each camera flash, each kiss and smile, you grip his arms tighter, holding him closer and closer as if he was never yours to keep.


	6. A Thief's End

"I have to leave for a year."

At first, it seemed understandable that Sam's well-paying job would have to end up keeping him all to itself; Sam was trying to change his ways, to grow out of his delinquent stage and become a good, honorable person. You couldn't chastise him for wanting more in life. You couldn't, even if you wanted to. High school was nearing its end and it made sense that the two of you needed to grow up, no matter how boring and tedious it would be.

"What do you mean?"

"I have to get out of town for a year. The boss is willing to pay some good money."

"And you're going to leave me behind?"

"Leaving you behind means that I'm not coming back," he walks close to you and wraps his arms around your waist, "I promise you that I will be back, for both you and Nathan."

Of course. Sam would never leave Nathan behind if it didn't mean it was for the best. You knew he loved his little brother more than anything in the world, even you, but you understood. Sam's life had a mechanic of things coming and going, an exception being Nathan, and for that, he held him close. You could never be angry at the favoritism.

Sam lets you go as he hops onto his bike and starts it up, waiting for you to join him.

"Where are we going," you sigh, "I wanna make all of this count."

He smiles at you as he quirks his head, motioning for you to hop onto the bike with him.

"It's a nice night. How about a stroll?"

He brings you to a park. One that isn't lit with streetlights and is teeming with people playing frisbee with their dogs.

He picks a spot, one where the two of you can comfortably lay down together onto the cold grass.

"So, a year?"

"That's right."

"Who else am I going to break into apartments with?"

"You know," Sam laughs, " Maybe you could change your ways. God knows I'm a stray sheep but I'd rather not be that asshole who gets you locked up."

"Hey, I trust you. Honor among thieves: that's the saying, right?"

He pauses, and with his reaction you suddenly realize that he truly does care about you in such a way that he only wants you to live a life of success and happiness.

You never thought that this sort of protectiveness over you would have been embedded into Sam's morality. This had baffled you in a way that you couldn't help but kiss him as if he was going off to war.

It's not a sloppy teenage makeout session; it's an actual display of affection that you hadn't realized was possible for someone like you. It's almost too good to be true, that someone had watched your back as you punched windows open and picked locks and raided pantries that were not meant to be picked through with your hands. And Sam - Sam thought of himself as the luckiest son of a bitch to have ever met such a wonderfully fun partner in crime.

"Hey," he says, "I love you."

And suddenly, the world is quiet.

Although the trees rustle and the moon sighs and the stars laugh as the night appears over the horizon, the atmosphere is still as if time has stopped.

Your thoughts do not betray you; the world is serene right now.

You've never felt so comfortable, so calm, and your mind seems to not be yelling anxiously anymore, but rather humming softly as Sam holds you close in the park, laying on the dewy grass, sprinklers setting off in the distance. There are no lamps unnaturally casting your shadow upon the sidewalks. There are no paranoid parents. There is no distant sound of the static on the T.V. and there is no nagging of adults. There is only Sam, you, and what the two of you let in.

Until he sticks to his word, leaving you behind, making you wonder why it seemed like such a good idea to make him your everything.

You decided to fulfill his wish about you quitting your delinquency after hearing of an incident on the news the day after in which two suspects broke into a poor old woman's home, leading up to her death of a heart attack during the burglary. You didn't want to be that asshole, no matter how much your impulses told you to take anything that wasn't yours. You hope Sam would be proud of you, just as you are proud of him.

But you don't see Sam the day after. You don't see him the week after, or the month after and especially not the year after. Contrary to what he promised you, he didn't come back to visit.

You did, however, vaguely remember the name of the orphanage that Nathan resided. "St. Francis' Boy's Home," and you rushed to the front office of the place as soon as clicked in your head. Even though you asked for one "Nathan Morgan," the nun had told you that young Nathan had been missing for a while, and the Morgan boys had suddenly left you confused yet again.

Maybe Sam left forever. Maybe it was his way of saying that the two of you are over. Either way, he's not there to tell you otherwise.

And so, you forget about him, tucking away a number of polaroid photos, a silver ring, and a brass pocket watch into a small box and forgetting about it quickly after, as if your time with Sam had never existed.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please dont ask me something along the lines of "please continue this story by...." because bruh i wont man. not in this universe. id have to make a whole nother story. which idk i probs wont

Things have changed since Sam and Nate had found Avery's treasure. He expected for his entire life to drastically transition into something great, for him to feel a sort of happiness in which the memory of his dearly departed mother smiled down upon the Drake brothers for completing the pièce de résistance of her work. Now that that tedious adventure had come to a close, here they were, cleaning up Nathan's attic of archeological trinkets and memoirs.

Nathan had kept a few of Sam's old things in a box, even after the incident in Panama. He had never bothered to scuffle through whatever laid there. However, now that Sam was alive and well, he was given permission to see the things his older brother had kept close to his heart, hoping to recognize and relive a number of memories the two had.

Nathan had recognized a few things, but not a couple of crumpled polaroids of Sam smooching an unknown person back in his teenage years.

"Hey, Sam, who is this?"

Sam stopped his rummaging in order to look at the polaroid he kept for over half his life.

It was a picture of you and Sam, sitting on the windowsill of your old bedroom, kissing and holding him. Sam had almost completely forgotten about you. And yet, he remembers your laughter from the long nights the two of you spent together.

The memory of you rushed back to him. It was a short relationship, but he couldn't forget the day he met you at a house party, stealing Ritz crackers and chugging soda and pocketing a shiny ring for yourself. He definitely couldn't forget your charisma in the way you laughed at his terrible jokes, in the way you snuffed your cigarette, in the way you held him close and the way you softly kissed him as if he was about to break.

"Sam?"

The sound of his brother's voice snaps him out of the fantasy replaying in his mind.

"This is," he began, "Someone I left behind."

"For whatever reason. You two seem pretty happy in these photos."

"We were." He hums to himself, making an expression concentration.

He's thinking about you, wondering where you are, hoping you're happy and content with your life.

Perhaps you're married now. Perhaps you have lovely children and a college degree, with a suburban house and a pool. Maybe even a family dog.

Sam can't bring himself to think of a life like that with you. Not because he didn't think of you in that way, but because he never actually wanted a normal life in which he wore khakis and polo shirts and had Saturday barbecues with your coworkers that he would probably hate.

He wonders what you're doing now, and he only hopes that whatever it is, it's better than what he can give you.

**Author's Note:**

> shameful wattpad promotion: https://www.wattpad.com/user/highonoctane


End file.
